


bon appetit

by aghamora



Series: Flaurel Ficlets [32]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Annalise's annual celebratory dinner to thank her students for all their hard work over the course of the year. </p><p>Frank and Laurel, predictably, have their minds on anything <i>but</i> food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bon appetit

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: 'frank and laurel are at dinner with the keating 5, they both get horny and have to leave abruptly.'

“You done in there yet? We’re gonna be late.”

Laurel scoffs, turning to the side and giving herself a last once-over in the bathroom mirror.

“Oh please. You take more time than  _I_ do getting ready every morning.”

On the other side of the door, Frank speaks up again. “What can I say? The beard needs diligent manscaping.”

“For the last time, that’s not what manscaping means. And just… give me a sec, okay? I’ll be out in a minute.”

That finally makes him go silent, and Laurel runs a hand through the loose curls in her hair, puckering up her lips and rubbing them together. Her makeup is immaculate, contoured to perfection: light pink lips, a faint dusting of gold eyeshadow, just the right amount of blush. Her little black dress clings to her body flawlessly, scooping down in the back and stopping a few inches above the knee, just long enough to conceal what she wears beneath.

So. Makeup? Check. Hair? Check. Little black dress? Check. High heels? Check.  

Silk, thigh-high stockings with garters? Check.

The last part is, admittedly, most definitely  _not_ appropriate attire for this end-of-the-year, celebratory dinner with Annalise, Bonnie, and the rest of the Keating Five. Laurel knows that perfectly well, but the idea had come to her last week, while flipping through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, and refused to leave her alone since. It’ll be one hell of a surprise for Frank, she knows – not to mention a really great way to make him squirm, during this prim and proper work dinner with all their colleagues where he’ll be forced to put on at least a relative air of professionalism.  

Satisfied with her appearance, she opens the door and strides out into the bedroom, finding Frank seated on the edge of the bed waiting for her, clad in a three-piece suit like always. The instant he looks up, he freezes, and a smirk slowly tugs at his lips as he drinks in the sight of her from head to toe.  

He lets out a low whistle, getting to his feet. “Holy  _hell_.”

“See?” she says, letting him place his hands on her hips and draw her body against him. “That was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”

“Damn right it was,” he husks, and leans in to get a whiff of her flowery perfume. “If we weren’t already late, I’d say I rip that dress off you right here right now.”

“Mmm. The dress isn’t the best part,” she purrs. He furrows his brow, and she reaches out, grinning. “Give me your hand.”

Frank does, and she guides it down, slipping it up her dress, to the area where her thigh highs end and the garters begin. His breath catches in his throat, and he swallows heavily, sliding his finger across the tiny clasps for a moment, before drawing back to look at her with hunger in his eyes.

He gives a low hum, burying his face in her throat and leaving his hand on her thigh. “Christ, Laurel, you _tryin’_  to kill me here?”

With his one-track mind as always, he reaches down to unclasp the garters, but she pulls away, making a reproachful clicking sound through her teeth.

“Ah ah ah,” she teases, and crosses the room, stopping in front of the full-length mirror and smoothing down the front of her dress. “No dessert until after dinner. You have to be on your best behavior. Annalise isn’t going to like it if you’re your normal… horndog self.”

“Best behavior?” he scoffs, coming up from behind Laurel and wrapping his arms around her. “Shit, you _know_  I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about you wearing those.”

Laurel laughs breathlessly, watching Frank in the mirror when he brushes her hair across her shoulder and kisses the bare, baby-soft nape of her neck.

“Good. I don’t want you to forget. And by the way,” she chuckles, turning her head to look back at him, “the better you behave, the sweeter your dessert will be.”

“How the hell’d I get so lucky?”

“No idea,” Laurel quips, and reaches for her purse. “Now come on. We should get going.”

Reluctantly – and with his eyes glued to her ass – Frank trails behind her out the door. As soon as he closes and locks it behind him, his eyes drop down south again, and Laurel notices, chiding good-naturedly, “Eyes front, lover boy.”

He just smirks, desire written all over his face. And – oh, yes, Laurel thinks.

This is going to be a fun night.

 

–

 

Halfway through dinner, Laurel can sense Frank’s self-control wearing dangerously thin.

Annalise does this at the end of every school year, apparently. She treats her students and employees to a dinner at Moretti’s, arguably the fanciest restaurant in the whole city, as a way of thanking them, and – as Laurel imagines, anyway – apologizing for being the most tyrannical boss in the world.  

It’s a breathtaking place, all dim lighting and silk table cloths and antique golden lanterns in the center of every table. The waiter’s uniforms are all flawlessly pressed, and they carry themselves with their chins raised, memorizing orders at the drop of a hat. It’s not a huge place; moderately sized, with round tables and dark wood chairs, the backs of which are all beautifully carved. All the other diners around them are dressed to the nines too. There’s even a live piano player in the corner, taking requests.

They’re seated at a large round table, big enough for the eight of them. Michaela seems perfectly at home in an establishment like this, as does Annalise, who sips her expensive vintage and chats away with a shocking amount of levity. She even genuinely smiles a few times, which freaks Laurel out more than a bit. Asher has probably eaten in places like this all his life, but he’s busy checking out their waitress and making crass jokes to a rather unfazed Connor, who keeps having his wine glass refilled and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

For a while, Laurel strikes up a conversation with Wes, who is seated at her left, and whose eyes almost pop out of his skull when he reads the prices on the menu. She has to explain what most of the menu items are, before he finally settles on the least expensive thing, despite Annalise insisting that she’s repaying them all for their hard work.

On her right sits Frank, who now and then speaks up to make some snide remark to Asher or Connor, but for the most part just keeps his eyes locked on her, his thoughts going in inevitably filthy places. It sends a thrill through her, to know the garters are their little secret; no one has noticed she’s wearing them, and likely no one will – except Frank, who apparently can’t think of anything else.

She talks to Wes until their food comes, and when it does she glances over at Frank’s, only to find him being served with a plate of oysters on the half shell, arranged on a bed of ice. Laurel furrows her brow.

“Oysters?” she asks softly, to keep the others from overhearing. “I would’ve thought you’d go for something more Italian.”

“Well, you know what they say about oysters,” he murmurs, eyes darkened with barely-concealed want. “They’re nature’s aphrodisiac.”

 _As if you need help getting any hornier than you already are_.

Laurel almost laughs at the thought, but it dies on her tongue when Frank picks an oyster up, holds it over to her, and winks, as if there’s no one else at the table but the two of them.

“Here. Have a taste.”

Everyone – except Connor, who catches her gaze across the table and wriggles his eyebrows upon hearing Frank’s proposal – is immersed in conversation, and so, after a moment of hesitation, Laurel deems it safe to reach over and grab her fork. She angles herself sideways towards him, and slowly, very gingerly, scoops the oyster out of its shell while Frank holds it, staring at her with such intensity that she can’t help but shiver.

Their eyes meet, and the lust in his, the desire, and the thought of what he’ll do to her later, how he’ll eat her out like she’s more delicious than any meal they serve here… It all hits Laurel at once, the same time as the oyster hits her tongue, rich and mouth-watering. She squirms in her chair before she can help it, squeezing her thighs together and becoming suddenly conscious of just how  _wet_  she is. The pleasant humming in her bones from her wine and the look on Frank’s face are only exacerbating the problem.

Her cheeks flush. A thin sheen of sweat coats her forehead, and she chews with her eyes still on his, swallowing after a moment, licking her lips, and struggling to ignore that insistent hunger brewing between her legs that she knows the obscenely-priced lobster thermidor in front of her will do nothing to satisfy.

Frank smirks, as if able to sense that. “Good?”

“Delicious,” she breathes, a wry grin playing at her lips. “My compliments to the chef.”

Frank’s smirk grows wider. So does hers – until Bonnie asks her a question across the table, and she’s forced to remember where they are, and that they’ll have to sit through the rest of this dinner, in this stifling, hoity-toity place with people that Laurel barely even  _likes,_ when really she’d rather be somewhere alone with a bed, and Frank.

But she can persevere. She’d been the one to lecture Frank about his behavior, for God’s sake. She can be calm. Think of something, anything that will serve as a buzzkill. With that in mind, Laurel scans the room, until her eyes come to rest on a bald, fat man chewing with his mouth open while his much-younger blonde girlfriend looks on. Laurel watches him for a while, hoping it will kill the mood, until she feels Frank reach over and settle his hand on her knee, dragging it back and forth suggestively, without sparing her a glance.

She almost drops her fork in surprise, but manages to catch herself and glance over at him with wide eyes. Her chair is close enough to the table that her knees are covered by the table cloth, and it’s almost impossible from any other angle to see what he’s doing – but  _still_.

“Cut it out,” she hisses through her teeth, leaning over but keeping her eyes on Asher, who is telling some story about his fraternity days and making all sorts of obscene hand gestures. She forces a polite smile, smacking his hand away. “Wes is right next to me. He’ll notice.”

“You kiddin’? Kid’s way too busy trying to figure out how to eat his chicken a la whatever-the-hell-you-call it.”

Laurel glances over, and sees that Frank is right. Wes is staring intently at his food, inspecting it, perplexed. Every now and then he pokes at it with his fork, apparently not knowing how to approach eating the exotic-looking thing.

Laurel almost grins at the sight – but then Frank’s hand slips higher, above her stocking to the bare, smooth skin of her inner thigh, his fingers dancing across it, making her squirm. She gulps almost audibly, and does a quick survey of the rest of the table. Connor and Michaela are busy bragging to Annalise about their summer internships, while Bonnie and Asher snicker at some inside joke of their own.

They’re safe – for now.

No one has noticed Frank’s hand, or the way her legs are spread just so, or how her dress and the napkin on her lap are peeled back slightly, giving him complete and total access to her. As if urged on by the fact, he ventures higher and strokes the clasps on her garters. She gulps, feeling her black lace panties brush her cunt and dampen just the tiniest bit. Still, Laurel keeps her eyes fixed stubbornly ahead, pretending to be extraordinarily interested in her lobster – before Frank slips his hand up a few inches further, pushes her panties out of the way, and finds her folds with two skilled fingers.

Her fork goes clattering noisily onto her plate all at once. Connor, Michaela, and Annalise stop what they’re doing to look over at her in surprise, and Laurel gulps, trying to squirm away from his fingers underneath the table without being obvious and praying to fucking  _God_  that her burning cheeks are hidden by the dim light.

“What about you, Laurel?” Annalise asks. “What’re your plans for the summer?”

Oh God. Oh  _fuck_. Frank moves his hand against her again just then, brushing her wetness up onto her clit for lubrication and working the sensitive little nub back and forth with his fingers casually, as if this is a _totally normal_ thing to do to someone in the middle of a restaurant. Not knowing what else to do, Laurel stuffs her face full of lobster to keep from moaning aloud at the feeling, and chews until she’s sure she can speak in a somewhat steady voice.

“Um, I’ve had a few interviews, so far,” she manages to tell her, forcing a smile. “Not any huge firms, but that’s…”

One thick finger teases around her entrance right then, before pressing inside and making her toes curl. She drifts off, her breath hitching in her throat as Frank adds another, her burning hot, wet walls encouraging him, drawing him deeper. It’s all too much: his fingers, her filthy, sopping panties, the wine, the risk and _thrill_  of it all – hell, maybe even the effects of the oysters. It’s driving her mad. Her nipples harden, pining for attention; her clit cries out and throbs, begging for more.

Oh, he’s  _dead._  He’s dead meat, as soon as they’re alone.  

She clears her throat. “That’s not what I really wanted anyway. I got into law to help people, first and foremost. Right now, I-”

Another finger, teasing her, making the delicate ring of muscle at her entrance flutter and clench. She gulps, shifting in her seat for the millionth time tonight. Her grip on her fork tightens until she’s almost sure she’s going to bend the thing in half.

“I’m looking at a firm right now that specializes in women’s issues. Gender discrimination. Divorce,” she squeaks. “I… think it’ll be a good fit.”

“Glad to hear it,” Annalise replies, taking a sip of her wine. “If you ever need a reference, you can count on me to provide one. The same goes for all of you. My name will get me into almost any firm in the city you want. It opens doors, gives you opportunities…”

Laurel stops listening just then. Finally, with everyone’s attention turned away from her, she reaches for Frank’s hand, drags it out of her panties, and drops it back into his lap. He chuckles lowly to himself – and then does something that makes her jaw drop:

He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, slow enough so as not to be overly conspicuous, winking over at her with a knowing look in his eyes as he does so. It’s far from the most polite thing to do at a five-star restaurant like this, but it’s not entirely out of place either, seeing as he’s eating oysters, which are messier than most dishes. At that, Laurel’s eyes double in size, as she watches him savor the taste of her, before he drops his hand back down and reaches out to pick up his wine.

“Delicious,” he leans over and echoes her words from before, after taking a sip. “My compliments to the chef.”

Oh God. She cannot believe him.

Her whole body is pounding, clit thrumming like a live wire between her legs. All she can hear is the sound of blood pumping in her ears, as deafening as a drum. Suddenly she realizes that she can’t sit still like this for another minute; she needs out, and she needs out  _now_.

So, like an idiot, she blurts out the first excuse that comes to mind:

“Uh, I’m not feeling so well, Annalise,” she says suddenly, removing her napkin from her lap and placing it on the table. “I think I… I need to be excused, I’m sorry.”

Before Annalise or anyone else has the chance has to say anything, she bolts from the table. Behind her, she hears Frank rush to excuse himself and do the same, and he quickens his pace until he meets her near the doors to the restaurant. Before she can say a word, he’s grabbing her by the arm, ignoring the odd looks from the hostesses, and pulling her outside into the hot summer night, until they reach his car. He has it unlocked in the blink of an eye, and Laurel all but attacks his lips with hers, shoving him inside, onto the driver’s seat. He tucks his legs into the car and she pounces on him immediately, kissing him again, so hard and rough it almost hurts.

He jams the key in the ignition, which prompts the heater and the radio to switch on, a song by The Smith’s coming over the speakers. Somehow, he manages to yank the door shut behind them, with him seated behind the wheel and Laurel straddling his lap. It’s far from comfortable, and when she accidentally leans back, she honks the horn, making them both jump and burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she pants, reaching to the side to press the button that reclines the seat. “I hate you so much. We’re like horny teenagers, running off in the middle of dinner to have sex.”

The seat jerks back all at once, so that Frank is almost lying down. He grins up at her.

“Better that than being a boring couple who never screws, huh?”

Laurel rolls her eyes, all but clawing at his belt before finally pulling it off and dropping it onto the passenger seat. Her nimble hands go for his zipper next, and she draws his cock out with a soft cry of triumph, finding him rock hard and throbbing already.

She blinks. “What, were you – were you  _hard_ all that time?”

“More or less,” Frank admits, unflappable as ever. “But any good magician knows how to do a disappearing act.”

At that, Laurel snorts, but he silences the sound by reaching up, grabbing ahold of the back of her dress, and ripping it, so hard that the thin fabric tears in half. It’s almost impossibly arousing, having the clothes ripped off of her – or, well, it  _would_ be, if she didn’t really like this dress.

So she scowls, reaching out and grabbing his cheeks with one hand, her nails pressing into his skin. “That was my favorite dress. You’regonna pay for that.”

He raises an eyebrow, her pink lipstick smudged across his lips and neck

“We talking financially or sexually here?”

“Both,” is all she says, and moves in for the kill.

She doesn’t even bother to take her underwear off; she’s just wearing a pair of tiny panties anyway, and she hates waiting, and so she pushes the crotch to the side, and she’s about to line herself up and sink down and get what she’s been craving so so  _badly_  all this time when-

There’s a knock on the window beside them, followed by a shout of “ _Ha, Pratt, you owe me fifty bucks! Told ya they ran off to boink!_ ”

Horrified, they both look out the window – only to find Michaela there, looking equally horrified, with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Asher stands off in the distance, victorious. Michaela quickly covers her mouth with her hands and jumps back, and Laurel gives a half-shriek of surprise, pulling away from Frank and reaching over to roll down the window.

“W-what the hell?” she pants, cheeks flushed, dress half-falling off her and exposing her bra. “Michaela, what’re you-”

“You  _do not_  get to be the one asking me what I’m doing right now!” she cries, then shields her eyes. “Annalise sent me to check on you two, after you said you felt –  _oh God_ , nevermind! Nevermind! I’m leaving.”

Scandalized, she does just that, stalking back into the restaurant as fast as her five-inch heels will allow. In the distance, Asher does a little jump of joy and raises his fist in the air, before scurrying away too.

“Aw yeah, Frankie D! Gettin’ it in!”

As soon as he’s gone, Laurel rolls up the window, looks back to Frank, and sighs. “Well. I think  _that_  was the most effective buzzkill in the world.”

“Really? So you’re saying I’m not getting that dessert you promised? Because…” His hand ventures lower, smoothing over her garters and undoing one of the little clasps, “I been waiting for it all night. Been on my best behavior.”

Laurel just looks at him. “Your  _best behavior_  involves slipping your hand into my panties at a fancy dinner with our boss?”

“Like you cared.”

She thinks for a moment, and then relents, pulling back and rubbing her lips together. “Fine. But…”

“But what?”

“We’re taking this to the backseat,” she tells him, her lips curling in a wicked grin. “I don’t want any interruptions, this time.”


End file.
